


Against the Tide of Years

by solnishka1927



Category: The 13th Warrior (1999)
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Historical, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solnishka1927/pseuds/solnishka1927
Summary: You know what sucks? Being a student of classical Greek literature, getting thrown through time to medieval Europe, and THEN being mistaken for a witch and pressganged into a suicide mission to kill a bunch of Neanderthals in Scandinavia. But the worst part? They really do think I have magic powers and expect me to help, and I'm starting to care about them...





	1. Arrival

So it’s currently 932 BCE, and I am lost somewhere in the wilderness of what will eventually become Central Aisa. Less than six hours ago it was half-past 9PM in 2018, and I knew exactly where I was on the University of Pennsylvania campus.

The more I see of this place the more I think I might have accidentally breached the fabric of space/time, which is… bad. I’m not a physics major, but I think I broke at _least_ three of the universe’s laws of How Reality Is Defined—and let’s not even get started on the potential philosophical/theological implications; it’s too much.

If I think about this for more than a few seconds at a time I feel like I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown, so… I won’t. I won’t think about it. I’m just going to keep writing in this journal, and by the time I’m finished recounting everything that’s happened in the past few days I will not want to curl into a fetal position and scream. There. Okay.

Where to begin?

I guess I should start by saying that this isn’t actually my journal. It’s the notebook I use for my Latin class notes. I’m an undergrad studying for a degree in history and hoping to specialize in the classical era, specifically Hellenic Greece—hence the Latin. I attend UPenn and live in a suite in Harnwell House with Summer, Rachel, and Fatima, who is an exchange student from Turkey.

Now that I think about it (carefully avoiding any breakdown-worthy material), it’s all Summer’s fault that I’m lost in medieval Central Asia. Really!

See, she’s wiccan and raised by hippies, and people make fun of her. Not in a really bad way—nobody is (was? will be?) spray-painting slurs on our door and saying she deserves to be burned at the stake—but they said her beliefs were stupid and childish and that her spells don’t actually work. Fatima, who is Muslim, is especially disapproving. I kept my mouth shut and tried to be a gentle, supportive suite-mate, but I agreed with the last bit of criticism: magic isn’t real. Hogwarts doesn’t exist. You can’t lay out some crystals in a pretty pattern, wave a wand, and rearrange the matter of the physical world.

Hell, you’re not supposed to be able to time-travel, either.

I found Summer crying in the kitchenette of our suite and tried to cheer her up. I made her a cup of peach tea (from my super-secret tea stash, no less) and we sat down at the table so that she could have some company while crying out her woes, which entailed patting her shoulder occasionally and agreeing when she said that life just wasn’t being fair to her. Eventually, she got the idea to perform a spell to “improve Harnwell House’s energy”. I was trying to be a good person when I agreed to help her do it, honest; I didn’t care about the “energy” of Harnwell House. I thought the spell was complete and utter bullshit.

I agreed to go out and get the materials from the weird crafts shops and ethnic grocery stores around Philadelphia. The candles and chalk were easy, but it took forever to find the frankincense. It was dark by the time I got back to campus, and I was angry at myself for signing away so much of my evening. Awkwardly wedged into my bag with the “magical” supplies was a copy of _Beowulf_ , which I needed to lug on over to the library and bury myself in overnight for the sake of a literature class, and Thucydides’ _History of the Peloponnesian War_ in the original Classical Greek, which would be a much more enjoyable re-read for the sake of an essay about religious sentiment among Greek intellectuals.

Everyone else in the class was using translated copies; I was hoping to exploit my fluency in Classical Greek for a few extra points.

Eh, I’m rambling. The point is that, as I was crossing the road back to Harnwell, I had a backpack with frankincense, candles, chalk, a copy of Thucydides’ _History of the Peloponnesian War_ , _Beowulf_ , and this notebook for my Latin class.

And then I was hit by a car.

…I can’t remember much about the car. The only things that come back clearly are being blinded by the headlights and having a moment to think “oh SHIT” and then—nothing. Which is probably for the best; would anyone actually want to remember their bones shattering and their organs being crushed into jelly as a half-ton-and-a-bit of steel slams into them at 50 mph? They’d be traumatized.

So. I had the “magical” supplies in my backpack when I was hit. Their purpose was to be used in a spell that would change the “energy” in Harnwell House (presumably so that people would stop bullying Summer). I didn’t know how to do the spell; I drew no pentagrams with the chalk before the car hit me, I lit no candles, I chanted no words.

And yet, when I opened my eyes, I was lying in the middle of a treeless steppe of rolling hills, without a road or building in sight. Standing over me was a bearded, scowling man wearing a robe and some kind of headdress. He was holding the reins of a horse that was cropping grass next to his feet, and speaking a language I didn’t understand.

The man spoke. He was middle-aged, with dark skin, hair, and eyes. He wore no jewelry or ornamentation of any kind, and his robe was made of black and grey striped panels. Neither his tone nor the expression on his face were kind.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

More words, again in that same language.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

More words, and he seemed to be getting impatient.

“Do you speak English?”

He didn’t attempt to speak this time, and just regarded me with a stony expression. I sat up slowly, blinking in the bright sunshine. I flexed my fingers and looked down at my hands, which were whole and undamaged. I looked at my legs, which were the same, and wiggled my toes in my sneakers—fine, just fine. Everything was fine.

In my mind’s eye, the glare of headlights overwhelmed me, and I heard the blare of a horn and someone screaming—maybe me, maybe the driver, maybe someone else entirely.

I shivered.

The man said something for the fourth time, this time in a slightly gentler tone.

“ _¿Hablas español?_ ” I asked. I’d taken the bare minimum of Spanish in high school. I wouldn’t be able to say much, but I could establish that I was an American citizen, and he could help me find an English-speaker or, better yet, an embassy or consulate.

The man made no reaction, however. I sighed.

“Do you speak Greek?” I asked haltingly, in that language. I was better at reading than speaking. But even so, I wasn’t speaking modern Greek—this was the Greek of Thucydides and Herodotus, who had lived and died 400-some years before the birth of Christ. A modern speaker would at best be able to pick out individual words here and there; the syntax was too archaic for real communication.

Plus, my accent was terrible.

But this, oh this made the man react. He exclaimed in the same language as before and began speaking rapidly. I stood up, and he began gesturing with his hands. The horse raised its head from its grazing, its ears twitching as it took in the excitement in its master’s voice. I looked beyond it, down the slope of a hill, and saw in the distance a dark blot of people and animals coming towards us.

I shaded my eyes with my hand. I could see horses and camels and people atop them, but no vehicles—not even wagons.

“What is this?” I asked.

The man gestured towards the group of people and animals, and spoke some, but of course I didn’t understand him.

“Is this a—a ritual procession of some kind? A funeral?” I couldn’t think of a better guess as to why the people had no vehicles. The man’s lack of comprehension or even recognition of English said that I was somewhere very far away from the UPenn campus, and the camels made me doubt it was anywhere in North America, South America, or Europe.

The man gestured towards the procession and took a few steps down the hill towards it. He looked at me and made something similar to a beckoning gesture. When I took a step towards him, he took another step towards the procession. I took a step, and that seemed to satisfy him that I was indeed going to follow. He turned to his horse, swung himself into the saddle, and then set off at a walking pace down the hill. I followed.

I had no idea what kind of people were in the procession, or what their goal was or where they were going. Looking back, I’m appalled by how naïve and trusting I was; they could have been slavers, bandits, or even just dishonorable people who weren’t above raping and robbing a lone, defenseless woman they found in the wilderness, and I just followed the first person I saw right up to them. Disgusting. My train of thought as I followed the man was little more than annoyance at the fact that he hadn’t offered to let me ride behind him on his horse, and was instead making me walk beside the animal.

We approached the procession. Several people called out in the same language that the man had used to speak to me. He called back. A person on camelback lashed the flank of their mount with a riding crop, making the animal turn around and engage in the most awkward run I had ever seen towards the back of the group. By the time I was close enough to smell the sweat and general bodily stink of perhaps a hundred people and beasts traveling under the hot sun, the person on the camel returned with two others in tow: one was a man wearing a black robe and headdress riding a white horse, and the other was an older man with a white robe and orange headdress mounted on a dark brown horse.

These people called out to my escort, who called back to them, who left the general body of the procession and came towards us. The man in the white robe dismounted and approached me. He stopped a little more than an arm’s length away, put a hand over his heart, and then said a phrase I recognized: “ _As-salāmu ’alaykum_.”

I knew the proper reply, but didn’t trust myself to pronounce it properly. In Greek, I said: “And peace be upon you as well.”

Had I really been unable to recognize Arabic this entire time?

“Who are you?” the man asked, “And what are you doing in this place?” His Greek was much more fluid than mine, and (wonder of wonders) the same style. I guess classical scholars weren’t as uncommon as I’d thought back in UPenn.

“My name is Ashley Briggs. I was attacked in the night—” I had no idea how to say ‘hit by a car’ in 2400-year-old Greek, “—and awoke only when this man found me on the hillside over there. Could you please tell me where I am, sir?”

“You are in the territory of the Oghuz Turks. I am saddened to hear that you were attacked. Do you require medical aid?”

“No, but I thank you.”

“Do you know where your husband might be?”

“I am not married, sir.”

“What of your father?”

“He is… far away. I left home to study the classics—with his permission, of course.” I’d been introduced to Fatima’s parents over Skype and had a decent grasp of how to talk to Muslim men.

“So that is how you speak the classical tongue! It is rare beyond measure to find a woman so educated. Do you have an escort?”

“No, sir.”

His eyebrows rose. His younger companion interjected with something impatient and Arabic. The man responded calmly in the same language before turning back to me.

“Forgive me. My name is Melchisidek, son of Abimelech, son of Chileab. My young friend is Ahmed, son of Fahdlan, son of Rashid. We are diplomats sent by al-Muqtadir bi-llāh, the great caliph of Baghdad, to the king of the Volga Bulgars. We travel there now.”

Baghdad—so, Iraq. I had barely any interest in modern politics and wasn’t sure who the current ruler there was, but I was pretty damn sure that Bulgaria was nowhere near the Volga river, which was in the middle of Russia.

These people were either insane or part of some scheme I was in no way prepared to take on. Had I stumbled across a cult? Unfortunately, they were the only people within sight, and I wasn’t keen on wandering through Turkey or wherever this place was until I found someone more sane.

I felt my stomach knotting in anxiety, but managed to take a deep breath and ask: “If it is agreeable to you, sir, I would like to stay with you for a time—just until I have the means to return home. Please. I—I do not want to lost here.”

Melchisidek did not answer right away, but instead asked: “What faith do you keep?”

“I am a Christian, sir.” Technically. I was baptized and confirmed under St. Jerome **(1)** per my grandmother’s wishes, but as soon as she’d passed away during my adolescence I’d stopped attending church and devolved into a disinterested agnostic—but a possibly-crazy Muslim wouldn’t be interested in hearing all that.

“Then it would gladden our hearts to provide you with aught that you need,” Melchisidek said. He must have seen the surprised look on my face, because he smiled and continued: “Though it was through Ismail’s line that the prophet Muhammad was born, and through Isaac’s Iesus Christ, were they not both the sons of Abraham? In the land of the godless barbarian Oghuz, it is proper for us to provide aid to one another.”

Well, that was… religious. And bigoted. But it meant that Melchisidek was willing to help me, so I wasn’t going to complain.

Melchisidek turned and said something to Ahmed, who turned and called out to two men riding double on a ~~horse with very long ears~~ a mule waiting some distance away. They approached and spoke to him, and seemed to be disagreeing with him. Ahmed’s tone become more insistent, and with scowls and grumbling they both dismounted.

“Can you ride?” Melchisidek asked.

“Uh… no,” I answered.

“Then today is the day you shall learn,” Melchisidek said far too serenely. The mule must have easily weighed more than 1000 lbs—and it was supposed to obey me just because I was tugging on some ropes attached to its head? Ridiculous. Give me a car or even a bicycle any day.

One of the men riding the mule led it over, now wearing a glare that was directed straight at me. His companion, still standing where they had dismounted, had kept his scowl with his arms folded across his chest. Melchisidek saw me looking at them and spoke loudly and sharply in Arabic. Instantly, their faces smoothed into masks of disinterested neutrality, and the one not holding the mule’s reins jogged back to the body of the caravan and disappeared into the mass of people and animals.

“I apologize for the discourtesy of our slaves,” Melchisidek said.

Slaves? This man was keeping people enslaved? What if he tried to enslave me? (The fear was illogical: Melchisidek had just accepted my request to allow me to travel with him, and had treated me with nothing but generosity and courtesy. But I’m African-American; my skin is as dark as the coffee beans my ancestors had been forced to plant and harvest on plantations in the Caribbean. Hatred/terror of being held in bondage might as well be imprinted in my DNA).

While I was caught in that internal spiral of shock/revulsion/fear, the slave not attending to the mule had returned with a folded pile of cloth. He presented it to Melchisidek, who nodded, and then brought it to me.

“Please accept this _burqha_ , to guard your modesty from the gaze of dishonorable men and the wanton Oghuz,” Melchisidek said. His tone and wording made it sound like I was being given a gift, but from the expectant look on his face and those of the slaves it felt like an order.

I took the _burqha_ and unfolded it. It was a plain black robe with long sleeves whose hem reached a little past my ankles, with both a hood and a covering for the lower face. Over the portion where my eyes were supposed to be there was a fine, loose mesh.

I took off my backpack and put it on. As soon as I had everything adjusted into the proper position and was peering out at the world through the mesh, I noticed that Melchisdek, Ahmed, and the slaves were actually looking at me now. Previously, they had stared past me and refused to make eye contact. Now, covered with the _burqha_ , I was apparently safe to look at.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and Melchisidek dipped his head in acknowledgement.

I shrugged my backpack’s straps back over my shoulders, and the slave leading the mule walked up to me. I had to hike up the _burqha_ ’s hem to be able to set my foot in the stirrup (which made the men all pointedly look elsewhere) but the mule didn’t seem alarmed when I swung myself up to sit on its back.

Melchisidek, however, _tsk_ ed in disapproval.

“You cannot sit that way, daughter of Briggs,” he chided. “It is more modest to sit sideways in the saddle, and will also preserve you from the soreness of riding.”

Because God forbid a man see me with spread legs, since they’re animals with no sense of self-control. First the _burqha_ , and now this. My inner feminist was seething. But both the mule and the _burqha_ itself were gifts given to me out of nothing more than Melchisidek’s own altruism; I couldn’t refuse this request without disgracing both him and myself

Very, very, very carefully I stood up in the saddle, swaying dangerously for a moment as the mule shifted its footing, and then turned so that I could sit sideways. I smoothed down the _burqha_ ’s skirt so that it covered my legs down to the ankles, and became safe to look at once more.

Melchisidek walked his horse over to me and took the mule’s reins, then kept hold of them as he spurred his mount into first a trot, and then a canter as we hurried to rejoin the stragglers of the procession. The mule didn’t have handlebars or even a seatbelt; the most I could do was cling to the edge of the saddle with my fingers and keep my teeth gritted tight to stop from whimpering. I could feel the animal’s muscles moving underneath me and hear its labored breathing. It had four legs that moved and interacted with each other rather than four wheels that remained solidly apart in their separate corners. What if the animal stumbled or tripped? What if it fell with me on top of it? What if it fell on top of me?

I felt nauseous—and damn all propriety, but sidesaddle was the most insecure position ever dreamed of for sitting on a equine’s back. I was going to fall. I was going to fall. I was going to f—

We reached the main body of the procession and slowed down, which let me remember how to breathe and reminded me to loosen my death-grip on the saddle’s edge before my hands started to cramp.

“Are you well, daughter of Briggs?” Melchisidek asked.

“Y-Yes, sir,” I said. “I have never gone so fast before on an animal’s back.” We likely hadn’t broken, what, 20 mph? But it was so different than going in a vehicle, even though I was used to doing 60 mph on the highway back home, that it had seemed frightening. I also hadn’t had an ounce of control through the entire experience.

Melchisidek smiled, though it didn’t seem mocking. The front of the procession had halted, and the rest of it was slowly following suit like a line of cars piling up bumper to bumper at a red light.

“May I ask why we have stopped?”

Melchisidek shaded his eyes with his hand and peered ahead. “Our leader, Sousan al-Rasi, is speaking to Kudarkin.”

“Who is Kudarkin?”

“He is the subordinate of the chief of this tribe of the Oghuz. We must ask his permission to travel through their land.”

Eventually, permission was given, and the procession carried on at a walking place. Donkeys brayed, camels groaned, and men cursed both in loud Arabic. The sun beat down and made me sweat under the _burqha_ as it slid down towards the west.

There was nothing to do except sit on the mule’s back and watch the scenery go by, of which there was little: the steppe was hilly, but had no trees, settlements, rivers, or even rock formations. The only interesting things that occurred was when some of the Arab travelers took the hoods off the raptors they traveled with (aside from servants/slaves, it must have been a party largely made up of noblemen) and let the birds loose to hunt rabbits in the long grass. Occasionally one flew back with a kill.

The two slaves who had given up the mule for me had no choice but to follow behind our mounts, mostly walking but jogging a few paces once in a while in order to keep up. Sweat gleamed on their faces and darkened the underarms of their undyed robes. They did not look happy. I felt guilty, but neither wanted to walk myself nor knew how to approach Melchisidek in regards to changing the situation.

At last, I could stand the boredom no longer and began pestering Melchisidek with questions—largely about the Oghuz, but I also tried to be sneaky and ask a few broader ones about the rest of the world. He answered patiently and with the appearance of honesty, but his responses were… troubling. He talked of how the Byzantine Empire had recently made war upon the caliphate ruling Baghdad, of the Holy Roman Empire that had risen from the ashes of Charlemagne’s rule of Frankia/Germania, and of how the Iberian peninsula was flourishing under Muslim rule.

I remembered enough from high school to know that the Byzantine Empire was conquered by Muslim forces at the beginning of the Renaissance and became the Ottoman Empire, but couldn’t pin even a broad handful of centuries on the other details he mentioned.

“What is the year?” I asked.

“310,” Melchisidek answered.

That didn’t make sense. It was true that post-Classical history wasn’t one of my strong points, but I knew that the final collapse of the Roman Empire was roughly 450—which didn’t leave a lot of room for all these other political powers.

“In Islam,” Melchisidek said, “We count our years starting after the Prophet’s journey from Mecca to Medina, called the _hijri_. That would be the 622 nd year after the death of Iesus.”

So that would put the date at… 932 AD **(2)** , smack in the middle of the Dark Ages. That made more sense than the year being 310 AD, but it was still wrong by more than a millennia. What kind of fantasy world were Melchisidek and the rest of these travelers living in? Finding myself stranded in Turkey I could accept, but time travel? Ludicrous.

Still. Melchisidek’s knowledge of “contemporary” politics was expansive and detailed. Maybe this was a troop of reenactors who were just really dedicated to staying in-character. I could play along to avoid offending him, and we would eventually reach a city or town and there part ways. That seemed good.

I wasn't ready to face the truth.

The conversation turned to geography, since I wanted to know where exactly in the Anatolian peninsula we were located (as it turned out, not at all: the Oghuz Turks claimed the land between the Caspian and Aral seas, which corresponds with modern Kazakhstan, and Turkey as I knew it was inhabited by the Khazar Khaganate). We moved on to Strabo and Pytheas, two Greek writers/geographers whose texts I happened to be familiar with. Melchisidek had been polite and informative when discussing what he was pretending to view as the present, but he truly came alive when our discussion focused on the ancient writers. He grew animated and gestured with his hands, explaining the parallels between the Muslim and Hellenic worlds in ways that I found fascinating, from language to clothing to art.

Here is a fact that is especially pertinent, which I hadn’t concluded on my own: both the Hellenic and Muslim worlds hold women to similar same standards of modesty—married or unmarried, respectable women do not leave their father’s/husband’s house if they can help it, and go veiled in public if they are required to do so. In my mind, the _burqha_ transformed from a misogynistic burden into more of a learning experience: to see the world as a Hellenic woman would!

“But do Muslim women have the Heraia Olympia?” I asked, referring to the women-only section of the Ancient Greek Olympics. It was held prior to the men’s competition, which women could not even attend as spectators. The penalty for a woman attempting to so much as watch the games was death, traditionally via being thrown off a cliff.

“No,” Melchisidek answered. “But we have no Olympic games, either. The Greeks were a vain people, and showed their nakedness in the gymnasiums of their cities as they sought physical perfection. Perhaps they would not have fallen from power if they had devoted themselves to prayer instead.”

Then, however, he smiled. “Truly, I have enjoyed our conversation today, daughter of Briggs. By Allah’s grace you have overcome the weakness of mind common to your sex and made yourself into a respectable scholar. I feel fortunate to have met you.”

I was grateful for the way the _burqha_ hid my face. Weakness of mind? It was one thing to keep yourself in-character for a performance, but quite another to outright insult—I can feel myself getting angry again, even hours later as I write down the occurrence.

“You are very kind, sir,” I gritted out.

We carried on for the rest of the day, and came upon the encampment of Etrek ibn-al-Qatagan, the headman of the tribe of the Oghuz who had agreed to be our host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) St. Jerome is the patron of librarians, archivists, and translators.
> 
> (2) Ashley's reckoning of the date is inaccurate, since the Islamic lunar year doesn't correspond exactly to the Gregorian (Christian) calendar that she/we use today. The year of Ahmed ibn Fahdlan's expedition to the Volgar Bulgars was actually 922 CE, but the difference is minute enough that I only mention it here for posterity's sake.


	2. Sickness

Etrek ibn al-Qatagan was a Muslim, unlike the majority of Oghuz who worshipped the _Göktanrı_ (literally “sky god”), and he spoke with Sousan al-Rasi and Ahmed. I hung back with Melchisidek, who apparently had status of his own connected to Ahmed’s father but, among foreigners, felt no shame in indulging his eccentricities. Rather than going to speak to the headman, Melchisidek preferred to stay with me and watch as al-Qatagan’s servants erected Turkish-style felt tents for the noblemen of the procession (servants and slaves would have to find their own accommodation). They also herded sheep and goats into a nearby pen so that they could be slaughtered in accordance with Islamic dietary law.

“How long will we stay here?” I asked.

“Only as long as courtesy requires. It is best if you do not speak to the Oghuz, daughter of Briggs; they are lustful and callous, and very few know the grace of Allah.”

“As you wish, sir,” I said. I was apparently the only woman in the procession, and had been getting glances from some of ibn-al-Qatagan’s servants. They couldn’t see much of me thanks to the _burqha_ , but even with a barrier, being subject to their gaze felt… uncomfortable. Did they think I was a slave or concubine?

We dismounted when our tent was ready, and the two slaves led our mounts away. One of them growled something angry and probably rude to me in Arabic, too low for Melchisidek to hear, as he took the mule’s reins. I pretended not to notice.

Either Ahmed and Melchisidek were persons of some importance in the ambassadorial procession, or else Etrek ibn-al-Qatagan was an extremely generous host, because the tent was (for something erected and fully furnished in under an hour) amazing. It was quite spacious, about twice the size of my freshman dorm room at UPenn, and the floor and curved walls were covered with thick, patterned rugs. There was a bronze brazier under the central smokehole, and two raised platforms covered with what looked like bedding.

Melchisidek indicated a corner that I initially thought was part of the wall, but the patterned cloth there turned out to be a curtain. Beyond it was a small area not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with another bedding-covered platform. Underneath it was a ceramic chamberpot. There was nothing else.

I heard Ahmed return and speak to Melchisidek outside the tent. A few minutes later, the older man returned.

“You will stay here,” he said, gesturing to the little nook that was apparently mine, “And the slaves will prepare a supper for you. Ibn Fahdlan and I will dine with the Oghuz leaders tonight. Do you require any accouterments for your prayers?”

The last part took me by surprise. I thanked him but refused, and wished him well. Melchisidek took his leave after grabbing his prayer rug, and I heard him, Ahmed, and the rest of the procession chanting their evening prayers to Allah before going to eat.

It was now a little after sunset. I could see the bright lights of cookfires stretching in all directions, their smoke giving off a pungent reek. (There were few trees on the steppe, and later I learned they burned camel and horse dung for fuel). The encampment must have covered several square miles. All around me, men went about their evening’s business, a few casting me more of those curious glances as I stood in the doorway of the tent.

One of Melchisidek’s slaves came up to me, said something in an irritated tone of voice, and made a shooing gesture with both hands towards the interior of the tent. The other one was kneeling in front of a nearby fire and stirring a wide but shallow pot suspended over it. He glared at me over his shoulder before returning to his task.

I pointed to the brazier inside the tent. “How do I light that?” I asked in Greek, even though I knew it was useless. “ _Ignis? Lux?_ ” I tried in my limited Latin, but neither word changed the slave’s scowl. Pointing at it again and speaking in a more angry, urgent voice stirred him, however. He fetched some dried dung and lit the pungent mess with a long splinter from his companion’s cookfire. The flames spread across the fuel in the brazier, low and sullen and stinking. I huddled as close as I could while breathing through my mouth, and opened my backpack.

 _Beowulf_ was the first thing I saw. I was looking for something with which to pass the time until Melchisidek returned, and the silver lettering on the otherwise-plain cover glittered in the firelight. I hesitated, then realized that I truly did have nothing better to do, and pulled out the book. I flipped through the introduction (it was only a story about a hero slaying a monster, after all, not a historical text—who needed an introduction for that?), found the first page, and started reading:

 

 

> LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
> 
> of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
> 
> we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
> 
> Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
> 
> from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
> 
> awing the earls. Since erst he lay
> 
> friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
> 
> for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
> 
> till before him the folk, both far and near,
> 
> who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
> 
> gave him gifts: a good king he! **(1)**

I closed the book. There were no notes explaining what an atheling was, or a welkin, or even a whale-path. (That last was especially confusing—was he talking about whale migration routes? But how would a Danish person from the Dark Ages know about that?) and everything around me was strange and uncertain and so, so fragile; I was only here, reading by firelight and having supper prepared for me, because of a stranger’s apparent altruism. I didn’t want a book that strayed so far from my comfort zone.

I put _Beowulf_ back and pulled out Thucydides’ _History_ , which was by now an old friend. I had read it many times, to learn about both the language and the time period it was written in, and felt comfortable skipping the introduction here too—but this time out of familiarity, not arrogance. I started on chapter two:

 

 

> The city of Epidamnus stands on the right of the entrance of the Ionic Gulf. Its vicinity is inhabited by the Taulantians, an Illyrian people. The place is a colony from Corcyra, founded by Phalius, son of Eratocleides, of the family of the Heraclids, who had according to ancient usage been summoned for the purpose from Corinth, the mother country. The colonists were joined by some Corinthians, and others of the Dorian race. Now, as time went on, the city of Epidamnus became great and populous; but falling prey to factions arising, it is said, from a war with her neighbors the barbarians, she became much enfeebled, and lost a considerable amount of her power. **(2)**

You see the difference between the two texts? _Beowulf_ is an epic poem about a folk hero fighting monsters, while the _History_ is (obviously) a historical account. It was clean and straightforward, devoid of confusing words, metaphors, and whale migration routes. I settled into Thucydides’ pedantic style, letting the language and familiar Greek names and places soothe me. I even managed to forget about the smell of burning dung, and was only roused from the book when one of the slaves loudly cleared his throat behind me.

I startled, looking up with wide eyes, and saw the slave bearing a shallow dish filled with… something. Later on, I learned that the Oghuz called this particular food _kuurdak_ , and made it by cooking sheep organs (liver, lungs, kidneys) with onions. But the Arab slaves had made it here, and it smelled good, so I returned the _History_ to my backpack and took the dish.

Once both slaves were outside again I removed the _burqha_ to expose my mouth to eat. I had no knife or fork and so ate with my fingers once the meat was cool enough to touch without burning myself. The meat was chewy and not very thoroughly cooked, and the onions had a satisfying crunch that suggested they hadn’t been cooked very long either. I should have been more wary of that, but I was hungry and still as trusting as a child. There was no seasoning: pepper was apparently an exotic spice that the Arabs had brought only to give as peace-gifts to the chieftains of whatever ethnic groups they encountered, and salt a precious commodity so far inland.

I ate. I started to feel queasy about halfway through the meal, but I shrugged it off as either eating too fast or else piling rich food into an otherwise empty stomach, and when I finished as much as I could I returned the dish to the slaves and went back to my reading.

Five minutes later, there were deep, clenching pains in my belly and I had an urgent need to use the restroom. I asked the slaves where the toilets were, but of course they didn’t understand me. My emergency was great enough that I retreated into my curtained nook and used the chamberpot.

And then realized that there was no toilet paper.

I had nothing to wipe myself with. I felt a moment of panic, but then scrabbled for the ends of the carpets that covered the tent’s floor, pulling one back and exposing a patch of short, withered grass. I grabbed a handful and used that instead. I was ashamed and disgusted, but at least had privacy.

And then I needed to use the chamberpot a second time. And a third time. And finally the pain in my stomach grew great enough that I vomited as well, but that did little to ease it. Worse, the chamberpot was now full to the brim of vomit and feces, and I had no idea what to do with it.

The wave of my body purging itself passed, and I was left gasping and shaking with my jeans around my ankles. I was weak and still very sick, and the air in my tiny refuge was heavy with the stench of bodily waste. Breathing it was making my stomach roil even worse, but the chamberpot was full and I had no idea what to do.

I felt another wave of sickness approaching. Inspiration or else desperation struck me, but either way I pulled up my panties and jeans, grabbed the full chamberpot, and left the small space that had been assigned to me. I hurried over to the slaves and left the full pot sitting next to them (which made me feel ashamed, because I did not want them to even see the disgusting evidence of my illness, much less be forced to deal with it), and then grabbed the clean, empty chamberpots from underneath Ahmed’s and Melchisidek’s sleeping platforms.

I turned around to go back and be sick in curtained privacy, but as I did so I saw the slaves looking at me. I looked back at them, and they returned my gaze. They looked at my naked face. They looked at me, shaking and sick and on the verge of vomiting on the carpets right in front of them, and there was a cruel satisfaction in their eyes.

They had deliberately undercooked my food. They had wanted this to happen to me.

Tears of humiliation were pricking at the corners of my eyes, but there was nothing I could do except hurry back behind the curtain and commence being sick. I knew they could hear me outside, and anyone passing close by to the tent could hear me as well. The worst was when I was retching into one chamberpot as my bowels betrayed me into the other, but I was helpless to stop either from happening and could only endure it until it passed.

I left my shelter long enough to deliver the two full chamberpots to the slaves (whom I no longer felt guilty about forcing to deal with the aftermath of my sickness), and then collapsed onto the sleeping platform. The night air on the steppe was cold, and the brazier’s warmth was several meters away and further separated by the curtain. I was sweating anyway, and I could feel the moisture now cooling on my skin as I lay there, dehydrated and weak and trembling.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home, or at least back to my suite in Harnwell House with its flushable toilets, toilet paper, and sympathetic but above all female roommates with whom I shared a common language. They would make me tea and politely refrain from throwing me through time and space to the medieval era of Central Asia.

I thought of Summer then, but was too exhausted to properly hate her for what she had done to me.

But in those moments, lying on the hard sleeping platform and staring up at the tent’s darkened ceiling, breathing in the lingering stench of my own feces and vomit, I accepted the truth: I was no longer in the 21st century. The evidence was too damning to support any other conclusion, and I was too beaten down to keep lying to myself. I couldn't even believe that this was all some sort of dream or hallucination—this bout of food poisoning was so intensely and miserably physical that it could be nothing other than reality.

I had just enough energy to have these thoughts, and then I wrapped myself in the sheepskins the Oghuz had provided as bedding, and I slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Beowulf, translated by Francis Barton Grummere 
> 
> (2) History of the Peloponnesian War, translated by Richard Crawley


	3. Dor

I was awoken by the sounds of crying and pleading. My first, foggy thought as I disentangled myself from sleep was that someone was beating a yelping dog nearby, which made me lurch upright off the sleeping platform and stumble out from behind the curtain without bothering to so much as put on my shoes. I squinted in the sunlight that streamed through the tent's doorway, then saw that it wasn't a dog being beaten.

It was one of the slaves.

Ahmed was berating the man in loud, angry Arabic and raining blows on his head and shoulders with a riding crop. The slave was doing nothing to fight back, only crouching down with his arms over his head as he cried out in pain, protest, or both. The other slave was standing nearby, watching helplessly.

"Stop this right now!" I said, forgetting myself and speaking in English. 

"Daughter of Briggs!" Melchisidek said, "You are unclothed!"

Nonsense. I was wearing a tee-shirt and jeans. Sure, they were rumpled and smelled terrible after last night's ordeal, but then everything smelled terrible—the dung-scented smoke of the cookfires had settled into everything, and no amount of nonexistent perfume could cover it up. Eventually you got used to it and stopped noticing.

"This needs to stop!" I said in Greek. "Tell your friend to stop!" 

"The slave is being disciplined. Please, daughter of Briggs, you must clothe yourself against the eyes of—"

I grabbed the riding crop out of Ahmed's hand. He was so startled by my interference that he made no effort to recover it, only stared at me. I glared back at him. The slave, bleeding from several wounds to his scalp and face, crawled towards his companion.

"Don't you dare strike that man again," I said. Ahmed might not have been able to understand my words, but my tone was clear enough. He narrowed his eyes and snapped something in angry, affronted Arabic to Melchisidek.

"Daughter of Briggs," the older man sighed, "Please return to the tent."

"Why were you hurting that man?" I demanded.

"Because he shamed you, and through you, us. A slave who poisons the food of his masters' guests cannot be trusted. He will be disciplined and then sold."

"The food wasn't poisoned, just undercooked. 

"Nevertheless, daughter of Briggs."

"I'm certain it was an accident," I lied. "He came with you from Baghdad, yes? So he wouldn't be used to cooking food in the way of the Oghuz. It was a simple error, and will not happen again."

Melchisidek was not just refusing to make eye contact as we spoke, but was avoiding looking at me altogether. The tee-shirt and jeans clung to my body in a way I hadn't really thought of before being made to wear the _burqha_ , outlining my thighs and hips and breasts and every other part of me that these Muslim men considered immodest.

Ahmed, now that he had recovered from his surprise, had joined Melchisidek in refusing to look at me. But other men in the camp were doing the exact opposite; some had even stopped whatever they were doing in order to take advantage of the opportunity to look at an uncovered female. I could feel their gazes roving over me.

I had to go back into the tent before I caused Melchisidek any more embarrassment. I offered the riding crop back to Ahmed, who took it with a frown (the slave was safely out of reach and having his wounds tended by his companion), and then went back inside.

I paused a moment close to where Melchisidek was standing and murmured, "I would speak with you in private, if I may." 

I ducked into my private little nook and pulled the _burqha_ over my head, then adjusted it so that I was once more peering out at the world through the fine mesh that concealed my eyes. When I emerged, Melchisidek was waiting for me on a stool next to the now unlit brazier. I knelt next to him.

"I apologize for leaving the tent without covering myself."

Melchisidek sighed in response and looked down at where he had folded his hands in his lap. I could see a few liver spots on the backs—was he truly that old? Did he see this expedition as one last adventure before living out his final days in the comfort of Baghdad?

"My father refused to keep slaves," I said slowly, thinking, "Because he believed that… to take away someone's freedom and to treat them as property, to buy and sell them like cattle… is not the way Iesus Christ would want us to treat our fellow men. I know your customs are different, but when I saw the slave being disciplined I was overcome by emotion and thought only to stop his pain."

"So you do have a woman's weakness," Melchisidek said, but he sounded thoughtful rather than angry.

"Yes. But I like to think that it's of the heart, rather than of the mind." 

He smiled at that. "Your father sounds like a man of singular morality."

Not true—I loved my dad, but knew he was an ordinary person with vices as well as virtues. What distinguished him from Melchisidek was the fact that Jamison Briggs had a set of morals appropriate for an African-American man of the 21st century, and hating slavery was an aspect of that. 

"Thank you," was all I could say, however. And then, after thinking a moment: "If you still wish to sell the slave, I would like to buy him."

"You wish to buy Hamid?"

So that was his name. "Yes," I said. "And then I will manumit him, and give him what funds I can so that he may travel where he wills. I do not want him to be stranded here among a people whose language and customs are strange to him." I still had the candles, chalk, and frankincense in my backpack. I wasn't sure how much they were worth, but I knew that frankincense was a luxury item and what I had was probably of much higher quality than what could be obtained in this area.

Melchisidek laughed. It was not mocking, just a burst of surprised delight. "Truly, daughter of Briggs, you have a generous and charitable soul! Did your father teach you this?" 

"Yes, and my mother as well."

He waved a hand, as though a mother's role in her child's upbringing was minute and not worth mentioning. "I do not wish to deplete your funds through the sale of Hamid. He will remain with us and receive no further punishment for his impudence—on the condition that it never happens again. Is this acceptable, daughter of Briggs?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

I saw Ahmed as I rose to return to my curtained nook. He had watched the exchange in silence with an unreadable expression on his face. What would he have thought of the conversation if he'd been able to understand it? Would he have seen Melchisidek as being too lenient with me? I knew I had been lucky to meet him—not just because he spoke Greek, but because he was such a kind and generous man; he could have turned the tables and ordered his two slaves to beat me to death for appearing in public without wearing the _burqha_ , but had instead chosen to ignore the indiscretion. He'd even humored me and cut short Hamid's punishment.

Maybe he had daughters at home, and indulged them the same way he was now indulging me. He seemed like the type of person to keep a female infant, rather than drowning her or leaving her to die of exposure the way the Greeks (and perhaps also Arabs) did, since they saw girl-children as nothing but a waste of family resources. 

These thoughts mulled around in my brain as I removed the _burqha_ and crawled under the sheepskins on the sleeping platform. I was still tired from last night's ordeal, and felt weak and dehydrated. Since food wasn't readily available, sleep seemed like a good idea.

* * *

I woke sometime in late afternoon to the sound of Ahmed, Melchisidek, and the slaves chanting their prayers. I felt a little bit better, but also desperately thirsty, and left my curtained space after donning the _burqha_.

After finishing their prayers, Ahmed and Melchisidek rolled up their prayer rugs and gave them to one of the slaves, who brought them back inside the tent. He stopped in front of me, gave a slight bow, and said, " _Ba'tezer begadd. Makanš el-mafrūḍ a'mel kedah_."

I had no idea what he said. I pointed to him, though, and asked, "Hamid?"

He gave a tiny smile and shook his head. He pointed to himself and said, "Ibrahim," then to the other slave who was taking a turn tending to the cookfire: "Hamid."

The slave turned at the sound of his name, and I saw the scabbed-over wounds on his face. He gave me a watery, rather nervous-looking smile and then returned to his task, and the other slave put the prayer rugs away. I stopped him on his way back out of the tent and mimed drinking from a cup. He nodded, apparently understanding, and went on his way.

I approached Melchisidek, who had brought his stool outside and was watching the activity of the encampment. People went by leading horses, mules, or camels, typically with the animals piled high with sacks and boxes whose contents I couldn't guess. It was easy to tell the Oghuz from the Arabs: the Arabs all wore long robes and cloths wrapped around their heads (later, I learned such cloths were called _keffiyeh_ ), while the Oghuz showed more variety and differed between pants and robes, and often also wore furs as well.

"Ibrahim spoke to me, sir," I said, after sitting in silence with Melchisidek for a while.

"What did he say?"

I repeated the phrase as best I could, and after several moments of thought Melchisidek translated for me: "He said 'I sincerely apologize. I shouldn't have done it.'" 

"And how do I thank him?"

"There is no need." 

"But I would like to."

"Then say _šukran_."

" _Šukran_." **(1)**

Melchisidek smiled.

Ibrahim returned with two cups of liquid, one for Melchisidek and one for myself. I sipped it, discovered it was tea, and was about to drain the cup in two gulps before realizing that doing so was probably impolite. I used my newly-learned word on Ibrahim, who smiled, and then continued my conversation with Melchisidek as the sun sank towards the west. He and Ahmed would dine with the Oghuz leaders again, and there would be exchanges of gifts and other courtesies. For politeness' sake the ambassadorial procession would remain in ibn-al-Qatagan's camp for three more days, and then we would head north, towards the upper coast of the Caspian Sea, and follow the river Volga until we reached the Bulgars.

"And then what?" I asked. 

"After our duties are finished we shall return home, to Baghdad.

I nodded and looked away from Melchisidek, turning my gaze towards the alleys between the tents of the encampment without truly seeing them. Home. But Baghdad wasn't my home. I wasn't sure how I had arrived in this time and place to begin with, let alone how to return to UPenn in 2018. Oh, I had some vague ideas about Summer and the "magical" supplies, but nothing resembling a solid theory. It could just as easily have been some completely other thing—an act of God, even, though that raised theological implications that I was neither ready nor willing to dwell on.

Regardless, I had no clear plan of what I was supposed to do if I couldn't return home. It was possible (though far from certain) that Melchisidek would be willing to continue supporting me and to accept me into his household in Baghdad. I could learn Arabic, perhaps convert to Islam for the sake of my host, and continue my scholarly pursuits—simply by speaking to me, he demonstrated that Arab culture respected classical scholars. That would be a good life. But, like all unmarried women in the Islamic world, I was a drain on my provider's resources—and Melchisidek was old; even if he was willing and wealthy enough to indulge a female scholar, I had no idea how his male heirs might feel.

My only other "plan", which was really just a vague notion, was committing myself to a Christian convent. The nearest bastion of Christianity was the Byzantine Empire, which was Eastern Orthodox, and they said their Mass in Greek rather than Latin—which was the exact opposite of a problem for me. Spending the rest of my days copying religious texts in a scriptorium, or even tending gardens and singing psalms, weren't among my ambitions, but it would be a sheltered and perhaps even comfortable life.

I was so absorbed in my gloomy contemplation of different futures for myself that it took me a while to notice the woman coming through the camp towards us. She was clearly one of the Oghuz: for one thing, I was the only woman who traveled with the Arabs, and for another she wore a fur robe that left her face exposed. She was old, and walked with the aid of a crooked stick, and her boots were made of dyed red and orange leather.

She approached us directly, or rather me, and stopped a few paces away.

"You are the Greek woman?" she demanded. 

It took me several moments to understand what she was saying. Her accent wasn't the Attic type **(2)** like mine and Melchisidek's, and she only had five or six teeth left—and two of them were black and rotting.

"Yes," I said, "I speak that language."

"My mistress is Nafisa, wife of Etrek ibn-al-Qatagan. She would eat with you. Come."

Melchisidek, perhaps insulted that he hadn't been addressed first, held out a hand to stop me from getting up. "What does ibn-al-Qatagan's wife need?" he asked. 

"Conversation," the old woman said. "News of the world. Companionship. Womanly things."

Melchisidek nodded, looking uneasy, and addressed me with: "Hamid will accompany you." He turned away and spoke in Arabic with the slave in question, who stood from where he had been squatting next to the fire. He brushed dirt off his robe with his hands and came to stand next to me.

And with that, I had no choice except to accompany the old woman through the camp. 

We drew a few glances as we progressed through the Arab portion of the camp. I was apparently the source of some amount of gossip, either for being the strange lost woman that Melchisidek chose to take in or else for my display earlier that day. Even though I was wearing the _burqha_ and so was shielded from their eyes, Hamid kept close, using his body as a barrier to prevent them looking at me. The old woman walked at my side, blithely unconcerned.

Once we left the Arab sector and were among the Oghuz, the staring lessened. There were more women here, wives and slaves and concubines who clothed themselves as richly as their station afforded. Wealthy women wore wolf pelts and fabrics dyed in bright colors, while poorer ones had sheep- or horse-skins and undyed fabrics. There were men too, walking or riding about their business, and children and dogs were everywhere.

The old woman was apparently known here: some people called out to her in the language of the Oghuz, to which she snapped out grumpy replies, and even warrior-looking men armed with bows and axes got out of her way. She was like Moses parting the sea, and Hamid and I could only follow in her wake.

"What is your name?" I asked her.

"Athina," she answered.

"You are Greek?"

"Thracian.” 

Conversing with her was worse than pulling teeth. "How did you come to live among the Oghuz?" 

"My daughter and I were captured by pirates, and we were sold first to the Khazars, and then to the Oghuz. Now I am here."

"What of your daughter?" 

"She was given to a the headman of a tribe to the north as a gift, to be his whore. Maybe she still is. Maybe she's dead." She glowered at the ground ahead of her, and the butt of her walking stick dug savagely into the turf with each step.

I took the hint and changed the subject: "What does Nafisa want with me?"

"I told that man what she wanted. You heard." 

"You can speak freely now; the slave doesn't understand Greek."

"My answer is the same."

So much for that. Athina made no protest when I let the conversation die off into silence, and eventually we came to a tent. Most of the Oghuz dwellings had plain exteriors made from oiled leather panels that had been bleached to varying shades of not-quite-white by the sun, but this one… it was big, bigger even than the one that had been afforded to Melchisidek and Ahmed, and the exterior panels had been dyed a bright red.

"Nafisa is within. Your slave will not come with us," Athina said, and then pushed aside the leather curtain that served as a door. She entered. I held up a hand to stop Hamid from following, then did the same.

The inside of the tent was well-lit; the flap covering the central smokehole had been opened, the fire in the brazier lit, and a cunning arrangement of smaller braziers and mirrors spread the light around. Patterned cloths covered the walls and floor, just as in Melchisidek and Ahmed's tent, but there were also plump cushions stuffed with wool and horsehair and low tables made of polished wood. It was a nomad's palace.

And sitting on one of those cushions was its queen, the wife of Etrek ibn-al-Qatagan, a girl no older than fifteen.

She grinned and said something in the Oghuz tongue. Athina translated: "She greets you, and wants you to remove your covering.” 

I took off the _burqha_. Nafisa's eyes widened, and then she spoke. 

Athina spoke to her in turn, then translated: "She wanted to know why you are so dirty. I told her people from the south have darker flesh than ours. Go sit with her. I'll prepare a meal."

I sank down onto one of the cushions next to Nafisa. She snatched up my hand and rubbed the back of it, apparently checking for dirt, and upon finding none she looked up at my face and then touched my nose. I frowned and swatted her hand away.

"What is she doing?" I asked Athina.

"She has never seen a face like yours before."

"I can see that. But why—"

Nafisa said something. Athina translated: "She wants to know if you are married, and how your husband desires you when you have thick lips and a flat nose." The old woman smiled then, showing off her rotting teeth. "She thinks you're ugly."

"I'm not married, and where I come from a lot of people look like me. If everyone looks the same then nobody is ugly. Tell her that. And tell her that I think she is ugly."

Athina snickered and translated, and Nafisa laughed. In truth, the girl wasn't ugly. She had a round face with dimples at the corners of her smiling mouth, as well as bright eyes and a little snub nose, and long hair braided into an elaborate coil at the back of her head. That hair was as black as raven feathers, and even had a bluish sheen to it in the light.

Athina was cooking on the central brazier as we spoke, and when she went outside and came back with a platter of seasoned meat my stomach growled as saliva flooded my mouth. Nafisa giggled and said something.

"She wants to know if you're hungry."

"Yes. Extremely."

Athina translated and went back to work. I questioned her as she did so, watching intently as she chopped the meat (it was horse) into small pieces, mixed them clumps of some whitish substance, and then wrapped them in dough. She explained she was making dumplings, which she called _manti_ , and the whitish substance was actually _tarhana_ , which was similar to dried cottage cheese.

"The Oghuz keep no fields, so all flour is bought from traders," Athina said. I took my cue and thanked Nafisa for treating me to such a lavish meal.

Athina made tea as the dumplings boiled, and then we were served. There were no plates; Athina put the dumplings onto a ceramic platter and set it between us, and then retired to a cushion several feet away—close enough to easily translate, but not enough to intrude. I was hungry enough to immediately reach for a dumpling, but burned the tips of my fingers and retreated. Nafisa giggled again, but then her face became solemn. She started to speak.

"She wants to know why you came out of your tent today without your covering."

So the gossip about me had spread among the Oghuz as well as the Arabs. "Because I was angry at a slave being beaten, and forgot to put it on."

"Why were you angry?"

I gave Athina the same speech I had given Melchisidek.

"So you're a Christian?"

"Yes.” 

"Then why travel with the Arabs?"

I explained how I had met Melchisidek, Ahmed, and the two slaves. Athina listened intently, then began translating. I snatched up a hot dumpling and juggled it from hand to hand, taking small bites. It tasted too good for me to care about burning my tongue.

As Athina continued translating, Nafisa looked more and more unhappy. After several moments she interrupted with something angry-sounding and slapped the surface of a table in apparent frustration. Athina sighed and translated for me.

"She called you here because she was hoping there was a way for her to be a good Muslim bride for Etrek, but also not have to wear the covering. Now her hopes are spoiled."

"I'm… sorry to hear that."

Athina shrugged. "She had a pagan childhood and wants to stay as a child forever, riding horses through the hills. Now she's a woman and can't do that. If she had children she would forget and stop caring, but she doesn't, because Etrek ignores her."

"Why?"

"Because he has other wives and better things to do." 

Nafisa stared at the platter of dumplings, eventually picking one up and slowly eating. All of the vibrant good humor she had demonstrated earlier had been sapped away, and she ate in morose silence. I tried to keep the conversation alive, inquiring about her married life and whether she had any activities she enjoyed, but even without Athina's curt translations it was clear Nafisa took no joy in talking to me. Eventually, I gave up and joined her in silently eating the dumplings.

Nafisa's life was a sad one. She was fourteen, rather than fifteen the way I had guessed, and had been married to Etrek as part of a peace treaty between their two tribes. Forced to convert to Islam for the sake of the marriage, she was unused to the life of seclusion that Muslim women led and spent most of her days alone with only Athina for company.

"What about Etrek's other wives?" I asked. 

Athina shook her head. "As the newest and youngest wife, Nafisa is supposed to be..." she trailed off, searching for the right word; apparently it had been a long time since she had spoken Greek, "Subordinate to the others. But she wasn't. When Ayjan mocked her, she threw a stool at her."

"Ayjan is another wife?"

"Yes. Etrek beat her for that, and now none of the others will spend time with her. You are her first visitor in... three and a half moons."

Nafisa, hearing her name and that of a woman she hated, was watching us talk. I gave her a sympathetic look, which made Athina grunt disgustedly.

"Don't pity her," the old woman said, her voice unexpectedly hard. "Nafisa does not work. She is never hungry, never thirsty. She sleeps on a soft bed and wears fine clothes. If she would only learn to be—"

Nafisa interrupted with something impatient and angry-sounding. Athina replied in a similar tone of voice, and for a minute or two the women argued in the Oghuz language. I, totally forgotten, could only watch and wait.

Nafisa snapped out a final phrase and got to her feet, pulling on a pair of baggy pants under her dress. She started wrapping a long scarf over her hair and lower face.

Athina offered a similar scarf to me. "Cover yourself," she instructed.

"What is happpening?"

"Nafisa has prepared a gift for you. She will show him to you now."

"Him?" I asked as I put on the scarf. When Athina didn't respond I continued: "What kind of gift is this?"

"A foolish one!" was all Athina would say, however, and once Nafisa and I had concealed our hair and faces we exited the tent. 

Hamid was squatting next to the entrance. He looked up when the tent flap opened, and his eyes widened when he saw me and Nafisa barely bothering to cover ourselves. If he was angry at that, though, he didn't show it, and simply followed next to Athina as Nafisa led the way through the encampment.

Several people looked at us as we went by, but none called out to Nafisa—perhaps because they didn't know her, or perhaps out of dislike. For all appearances Nafisa was oblivious to the other Oghuz, and we walked to the very edge of the encampment. Tents were sparser here, and generally smaller and poorer-looking than they had been closer to the center. Beyond them the grass had been clipped close to the turf and trampled by the passage of the tribe's herds of sheep, camels, and horses.

Nafisa said something, and an Oghuz man lounging in front of a tent jumped to his feet and hurried away. He returned a few minutes later leading a small brown horse.

"Behod," Athina said, "Your gift." 

"I..." I said, then trailed off. The horse looked... well, like a horse. I didn't know enough about them to offer much of an opinion. Its body was brown, but black between the knees and hooves of each leg, and its nose, mane, and tail were black as well. It didn't seem skinny or otherwise malnourished, and was standing there placidly enough wearing a bridle of braided leather. 

"Well?" Athina asked.

"I... I don't know how to ride," I said. "Please tell her I appreciate the gift, but that I can't accept it."

Athina gave me a long, unimpressed look. I had to resist the urge to look down and fidget.

"I will tell Nafisa," Athina said, "That you cannot ride, but that you are elated at this opportunity to learn how." 

"What? No, no, you can't—" 

Athina was already translating, and I could only look on helplessly as Nafisa listened, then looked at me. The corners of her eyes crinkled up as she smiled beneath the scarf.

My stomach twisted into knots as I smiled back.

Nafisa dismissed the Oghuz man who had fetched the horse, then took hold of the reins, hiked up her dress, and swung herself into the saddle with an ease born from long experience. She beckoned to me, then coaxed me up onto the horse’s back behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist and tried not to squeeze too hard as she urged the horse to a walk, then to a bouncing trot that made me grit my teeth, and finally a smooth canter.

It wasn’t like riding the mule. Straddling the horse’s back rather than sitting aidesaddle, I felt decently secure and in no danger of falling off. I could feel the muscles move beneath the animal’s skin and hear its breathing become harder, but rather than just sullenly obeying the hands on its reins the horse seemed eager. It wanted to run with someone sitting on its back. It wanted to interact and feel the rider’s commands.

Nafisa whooped and did something with her knees, and the horse put its head down and broke into a run across the steppe. Nafisa laughed with joy and I did my best not to scream—but it was a good scream, the kind you let out when you’re plummeting straight down on a rollercoaster track and are so excited there’s no other sound you can possibly make.

Nafisa turned the horse in a wide circle and made it slow down, and we arrived back at where Hamid and Athina were standing. Nafisa dismounted and helped me down, then babbled something bright and excited at me.

“She wants to know what you think.

“The horse is wonderful,” I said, surprising myself. The animal stood next to us, panting hard but with its head up and ears forward. It looked alert and intelligent in a way that my Honda back home never would, and seemed ready and willing to go again.

“What is its—I mean, his—name?”

Athina spoke with Nafisa, and the two went back and forth for several minutes.

“The horse has no name,” Athina said eventually. At my confused look she continued: “Etrek owns more than 4,000 horses. Do you think he names each and every one of them?”

“Then how was Nafisa able to decide that she wanted to give me this horse? How could she tell that man earlier which one she wanted?”

More back-and-forth between Nafisa and Athina, and the Greek woman was getting impatient.

“The horse is called _Dor_ ,” Athina said at last. “That is the name of the color of its hair. That’s how the herdsmen distinguish him from other horses.” 

Dor. What an interesting name. **(3)**

“And now he is yours,” Athina said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) all Arabic translations from the arabicpod101 website, which I unfortunately can’t provide a link to at the moment.
> 
> (2) an “Attic” accent means the accent of someone from Athens, which was the academic/cultural heart of Classical Greece. Well-educated foreigners who were taught to speak Greek (like Ashley and Melchisidek) would have been taught to speak with this kind of accent
> 
> (3) “Dor” is the Turkmen word for the bay coat of a horse, and Turkmen itself is one of the languages spoken by the eastern Oghuz Turks. Nafisa and Ayjan are Turkmen names.


	4. Lost

Melchisidek and Ahmed were surprised but far from displeased when I returned sitting (sidesaddle) on Dor's back. I hadn't thought of the little horse as anything other than a means of transportation—and possibly also portable currency, since I had seen no coins in use among the Oghuz and could fathom no other reason for al-Qatagan to own more than four thousand of the beasts—but the Arab diplomats saw the little horse as neither of those things. In their eyes, Dor was a political pawn, a highly visible mark of favor from the headman's wife. (I doubted that this "mark of favor" had been given with al-Qatagan's blessing beforehand, and could only hope that Nafisa wouldn't be punished for her generosity).

Or at least, Melchisidek saw it that way. Ahmed just liked horses.

After I dismounted and was standing a polite distance away, the younger Arab spent several minutes examining Dor, running his hands over the horse's back, neck, and legs and speaking to him in a gentle, soothing voice. Eventually, he turned back to me and said something.

"This is a good horse," Melchisidek translated. "Not as good as our horses, which are the best in the world, but still good."

"'The best in the world?'" I asked, raising an eyebrow. The expression was lost under the  _burqha_ , but my tone made the skepticism clear enough.

Melchisidek began speaking to Ahmed, who shook his head and spoke in turn to the slaves. Ibrahim jogged away and returned leading Ahmed's white horse.

"This is a fine mare," Melchisidek began, "Seven years of age with a coat as white as the clouds of Heaven. Look at the arch of her neck, her beautiful face, the carriage of her tail, even her prancing gait—her name, Mayyadah, means 'one who walks with pride and elegance'..."

It wasn't just Ahmed. I think all Arabs love horses to some degree. Even the slaves seemed to appreciate Mayyadah, stroking her nose and feeding her pieces of dried fruit when Ahmed wasn't looking. Melchisidek explained how the Arabs have been breeding horses for thousands of years, focusing on speed, endurance, and good temperament, and that some horses were so valuable as breeding stock that they were brought into their owners' homes in bad weather.

But seeing Mayyadah and Dor standing side by side... it was like comparing a greyhound to a rottweiler. The white mare was composed of lean, graceful lines, every well-groomed inch of her shining with poise and attentiveness to her master, while my brown steppe-horse was a shaggy, muscular little animal that put back his ears and tried to nip the other horse's flank when she came too close.

Dor lost some favor after that, and Ibrahim took him and Mayyadah back to where the white mare had been grazing with the other animals of the ambassadorial procession. Melchisidek continued telling me of Arab horses and horsemanship, even going so far as to speak of how the Prophet's mares had, while dying of thirst, turned away from water and came to their master's side at his call. That was the ideal of a true Arab horse, apparently: beautiful, graceful, strong, intelligent, swifter than the desert wind and more faithful than a dog.

I listened politely as the sun grew ruddy and sank towards the west, but very little of the information was practical—especially for me, who knew almost nothing of horses to begin with. Finally, just after sunset, the  _mu'addhin_  (that is, the person appointed to dictate the call to prayer) sang out, and I retired to the interior of the tent as the slaves and diplomats alike spread their prayer rugs, knelt upon them, and bowed low in the direction of Mecca.

The prayers were beautiful, though I didn't understand them. Later, I tried asking Melchisidek, with all discretion and politeness, just what he and the other Muslims said during their prayers—but the reply was so complicated that I don't trust myself to record his response with more than a cursory summary. What I understood is this: there are five daily prayers, which are said at set intervals throughout the day starting at dawn and ending well after sunset, and each involves a beginning recitation of the opening chapter of the Qur'an (called the  _Surah al-Fatiha_ ), and then the recitation of another chapter, and bowing, and prostration with the forehead resting upon the prayer rug, and then a recitation of the  _tashahhud_ , which seems to be praise of Allah and the Prophet, and then a brief closing benediction.

And then this entire process is repeated two to four times. **(1)**  And to think that I had chafed under the oh-so-onerous burden of going to church once a week as a child!

It was a long time before the evening prayer was finished. After it was done, Ahmed and Melchisidek changed into the finely-embroidered robes and  _keffiyeh_  that apparently made up their eveningwear, then left to dine with al-Qatagan and the other high-ranking Oghuz of the tribe. Ibrahim and Hamid lit the interior brazier for me before squatting in front of their cookfire outside. A kettle was hanging from a tripod that had been erected over it, which both slaves were peering into intently and conferring in hushed whispers. They shooed me away whenever I tried to come close and see what was inside, so there was nothing to do but sit beside the brazier and record the day's events in this journal.

It was fully dark by the time Hamid entered the tent carrying a bowl of whatever he and Ibrahim had been working on so intently. He set it down on the carpet next to me, bowed deeply, and went outside again.

I picked it up. It looked like soup—or at least, I could see objects floating in a thin reddish liquid. I sniffed it, and detected garlic and onions. I poked at the contents with the provided spoon: white beans, pieces of chopped onion, leaves from plants I couldn't identify, and chunks of meat that were probably goat or mutton. I glanced towards the doorway of the tent and saw Ibrahim hurriedly turn away to look at the fire.

I took a cautious spoonful, then stared down at the bowl in surprise: it was good! Really, really good—probably the best thing I had eaten here so far. I finished the rest of the soup in record time, then pulled the  _burqha_  back on and ducked out of the tent for seconds.

Hamid said something when I exited the tent with the empty bowl, then smiled cautiously. He looked at the bowl, then at my covered face, and kept smiling, apparently hoping for a reply.

I smiled back, but of course the expression was lost beneath the  _burqha_. Hamid didn't show any comprehension when I made the thumbs-up sign, and I was reluctant to do a more heavy-handed pantomime with patting my belly and smacking my lips—what if the Arab saw it as obscene? All I could do to convey approval of the soup was to say, " _Šukran_ ," and gesture at the kettle for a refill.

That, at least, was understood. Ibrahim dipped my bowl into the kettle to give me more, then handed it back. " _Fasoulia_ ," he said, pointing to the kettle, and I nearly dropped the bowl in shock.

" _Fasoulia_?" I repeated.

Both slaves nodded and repeated the word. I looked down at the soup as the pieces clicked together:  _fasoulia_! Or, as the Greeks called it,  _fasoulada_. Barring the meat, which Greeks (or at least the Hellenes of old) rarely ate, I was having a supper fit for an inland-dwelling peasant. Had Ibrahim and Hamid cooked this deliberately, as courtesy to what they perhaps perceived as my homeland, or had the dish spread beyond the Mediterranean on its own and my eating it now was only coincidence? I would have no way of knowing the answer until Melchisidek returned to translate for me.

I had no way of knowing, but I wanted it to be the former. I wanted Ibrahim and Hamid to like me and to be my friends, as much as it's possible for men and women to be friends within the bounds of propriety in the Arab culture (which isn't very much). Looking at their hesitant smiles made me want it even more; I was alone in this place with only Melchsidek to talk to, and was discovering the depth of the emotional toll that was exacted for placing all of my most basic needs for safety, food, shelter, and companionship on a single man whose continued support I wasn't entirely certain of. Thinking too hard about how incredibly tenuous my current state of wellbeing was made me want to curl up in a corner and cry, and it would be nice to have some friends that would help me out of something other than grudging obedience to their master's wishes.

Speaking of—

"Ashley of Briggs," Athina said, stumping up to the tent wearing what I now knew to be her usual grimace. Ibrahim and Hamid looked at her suspiciously, understanding the foulness of her tone if not the actual words.

"Hello," I said, voice politely neutral. "Does Nafisa want me to eat with her again?"

"Yes. Tomorrow."

"Alright. Will you eat with me now?"

If the old woman was surprised by the request, she gave no sign of it. Her black eyes narrowed in distrustful calculation as she peered at my veiled face.

"Why?" she demanded, blunt as ever.

"Because I want to talk to you. There is  _fasoulada_."

For half a second, a complex whirl of emotion flitted across Athina's face. There was nostalgia, I think, but also... pain? Distaste? It was gone before I could be sure, and she gave me no time to ponder it.

"Fine," she said. She snapped something at the slaves in the Oghuz language, which of course they didn't understand, but at my gesture Hamid fetched another bowl, filled it, and handed it over to the old woman with a bow that barely bent his back. She took it from him with neither word nor gesture of gratitude, but followed me into the tent and sat down on the carpeted floor. She waited in silence as I removed the  _burqha_  and sat down opposite her, then tasted the  _fasoulada_. Her frown deepened.

"No olive oil," Athina said, and her expression was stony as she set the bowl aside.

"Olives don't grow on the steppe," I said, shrugging in apology, "The slaves did their best."

Athina grumbled something short and sharp-sounding. It was probably a phrase indigenous to her Thracian peasant's dialect, and therefore incomprehensible to the formal, upper-class Attic Greek I had learned out of books.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I... I need help."

Athina said nothing, merely waited, and I was forced to continue.

"I'm lost," I blurted out. "Very... very lost. I don't know how to explain this well, but..."

"Where are you from?" Athina interrupted.

"Pennsylvania—Penn's Forest," I said, translating the Latin name. "I attended a, a  _university_  there—a place similar to the Platonic Academy—"  **(2)**

"Women do not attend…" Athina groped for the right word for a moment, "Schools.  _University_ , you call them. Not even noblewomen. Maybe your father indulged you a tutor—"

"But I did attend university! I did! The university of Pennsylvania—"

"There is no university of Penn's Forest! There is no Penn's Forest! Many, many travelers come through the Oghuz lands, and I have lived here twenty years and never have I heard of a Penn's Forest."

"It's across the sea. Not the Mediterranean—the other one, the western sea beyond it."

Athina shook her head. "That sea does not have anything on the other side. It's just… salt water, with no end. Nobody can cross it."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What could I say in the face of that? It would be more than 500 years before Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic and opened the continents of the western hemisphere to European exploration/colonization. And besides—even if by some miracle I managed to cross the ocean as well, what would I find when I got there? Forests, wilderness, and Native American tribes. Philadelphia didn't exist. My hometown of Reading, Pennsylvania, didn't exist. I was indeed very lost, and there was no way for me to go home to my family or my life as a classics student.

I was stranded here. Forever.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes and a sob threatening to rise in my throat, and ducked my head to blink hard, swallow, and master myself before I totally broke down in front of a cranky old woman.

"So the old man is not your father?" Athina asked, ignoring my display of emotion.

"Melchisidek? No. I'm not related to anyone here." I wiped at my eyes with one hand.

"And you are not a concubine?"

"I would never—"

Athina held up a hand to cut short my indignation. "Why are you asking my help?"

"Because Melchisidek, my benefactor... he is Muslim, and I'm afraid that he would accuse me of witchcraft or madness and cast me out if I went to him. You are the only other person I can speak to."

"You only speak Greek?"

"No. I speak  _English_ , and a little  _Spanish_."

"I've never heard of those languages."

" _English sounds like this_ ," I said.  _"And this is Spanish_."

Athina shook her head in confusion/disquiet. "The first one... it sounds a little like the tongue of the Rus, the barbarian river-traders and pirates from the far north  **(3)**. The second one is much closer to Latin, of which I understand a little bit, but it is not that language."

The old woman fell silent, sucking thoughtfully on one of her remaining teeth and staring past my ear at nothing in particular. At last she spoke again: "I do not think you are mad. Confused, yes, but not mad. You were sensible to come to me rather than your… benefactor, you called him, but I cannot help you." She stood up to leave, groaning as her joints crackled in protest.

I stood up with her. "Then who? Who should I talk to?"

The old woman shrugged. "God, perhaps. Nothing else can bring you to a place that doesn't exist."

I recoiled as though stung, and as I did so Athina took her leave. I watched the tent flap fall back into place behind her, then slowly sat down on the thick carpets. I looked at the two mostly-full bowls of  _fasoulada_  but no longer felt any hunger. The tears were welling up again, but this time there was no audience to prompt me to stifle them. I cried a little bit right there, then crawled to my sleeping space and dug through my backpack. I knew I still had it, it had to be—aha, here it was: my phone. The screen came alive with bright, artificial light under my fingertip, looking strange and almost foreign after two days of only fire- and sunlight. The battery was at 27%, and I switched it to low-power mode before trying to open Facebook—which of course didn't work, because Facebook didn't exist. I tapped into my Photos library instead, scrolling faster and faster until I found it.

A selfie. It was the very beginning of my freshman year at UPenn, and I had taken it with my mom, my dad, and my two older brothers after they had helped me move all of my clothes and furniture into my fifth-floor dorm room. Everyone was sweating hard in the August heat but smiling at the camera regardless. Eddie was doing the bunny-ears sign behind my head as my mom kissed my cheek and my dad looked proud enough to burst. Looking at that three-year-old photo, I felt like I was going to burst—from sadness. I was crying for real now, ugly crying that put claws in my throat and made my nose drip, and I could hear Hamid and Ibrahim calling through the tent with soft, concerned voices.

After several minutes, worry about my phone battery made me turn the device off and hide it away in my backpack. I hugged myself, sniffed hard, then wiped at my eyes and nose with the  _burqha_ 's sleeve as I put myself back together as much as I could. I stared at the darkened wall of the tent, trying to actually think rather than start crying like a child again.

Up until now my misadventure in the 10th century AD had been... manageable. Sure, the food poisoning had been a low point, but other than that it had felt more like a school field trip than anything else; I got to speak Greek, get up close and personal with a foreign culture, try different kinds of food whose names I had trouble pronouncing... it had been fun, in a way. Even trying to figure out what I would do with my life once Ahmed and Melchisidek's ambassadorial mission was completed had been just another part of the exercise, just the next chapter of a story. Now I wanted more than anything for this misadventure to end and for me to go home, but Athina was right; only an act of God could take me back to Pennsylvania in 2018.

I had an urge to do as the old woman recommended and pray. It had been my grandmother's solution to everything: car won't start? Pray the engine trouble away. Burned the casserole for Sunday dinner? Pray over the oven. Can't find the right exit on I-70? Pray. She treated God, Mary, Jesus, and all the saints and angels as her personal agony aunts. I had despised her a little bit for it before her death, but apparently hadn't escaped the influence. (And ah, I'm crying again as I write this, but the tears don't hurt so much now).

I got down on my knees in front of the sleeping platform, folded my hands, and said the Lord's Prayer in English, Latin, and finally Greek, and by the time I was finished I felt... better. I had been thinking of my grandmother and her ridiculously large, gaudy church-hats rather than God, which was probably a sin, but if Grandma knew I'd been thinking about her while praying she probably wouldn't mind redirecting my sentiments to their proper recipient.

I heard Melchisidek and Ahmed returning and speaking with Hamid and Ibrahim. Several minutes later there was a soft cough next to the (covered) doorway of my sleeping area.

"Daughter of Briggs?" Melchisidek asked gently. "Are you well?"

"Yes, sir," I said, and wasn't sure whether I was lying or not. I felt more composed, but still very fragile—a few harsh words would be enough to push me over the edge and open the (newly reinforced, but still straining) floodgates to all the grief/fear/loss. "I just... I miss my family very much, sir."

There was a beat of soft, sympathetic silence.

"The darkness of night often allows fear and loneliness to creep into our hearts, even if we trust ourselves wholly and joyously to Allah's care," the old man said gently, "Perhaps, if you sleep, you will find your troubles to be lessened if not dispelled by the dawn."

"That... sounds good. Yes. Thank you, sir," I mumbled, already crawling under the sheepskins on the sleeping platform. I was asleep before I remembered to say goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) the process Ashley described is the basic formula of a single rakat, or prayer cycle. It's true that each of the Muslim daily prayers involve a minimum of 2-4 required (described as fard) rakat, but there are also up to 6 additional rakat that are optional. Failure to perform the daily prayers without extenuating circumstances (such as if the person is sick/injured, in labor, menstruating, or in a situation where the act of praying would expose them to danger) is considered at the very least a major sin by most Muslim sects.
> 
> (2) the Platonic Academy was one of the first true schools, and had a set location (Athens) and curriculum focused on the philosophy of Plato. Previously, education was given through hiring private tutors within the privacy of one's home, or else through attending the lectures of traveling Greek sophists (teachers of rhetoric, the art of public speaking).
> 
> (3) the Rus are Vikings! (Yes, we have finally mentioned Vikings in this fic! It only took 14,000 words!) Specifically, they're travelers/settlers from Scandinavia (primarily Sweden, but also Norway, Denmark, and Finland) who alternate between trading with and pillaging riverside populations in Eastern/Central Europe + Central Asia. As a political unit, the Rus are a loosely-connected group of tribes speaking multiple languages and worshiping multiple faiths, but all more-or-less following the lead of a ruler based in what will become the city of Kyiv in modern-day Ukraine.


	5. Sisterhood

It turned out that Melchisidek was right. I awoke to the Muslim dawn prayer, feeling refreshed and somehow renewed. The grief still lingered, but it was gentler now, more manageable; I was in no danger of bursting into tears if someone spoke frankly with me about my situation. I left my sleeping area, nodded a hello to Ibrahim and Hamid, and drank the tea and ate the porridge-like bowl of mashed and boiled grains they provided. It had no seasoning and was very bland, but filling. I spoke a little bit to Melchisidek, who I think wanted to make sure that I was alright, and then retired to the interior of the tent and recorded last night's and this morning's events in my journal.

I had enough spare time on my hands that I could read over what I had written during the previous days, which was everything. Outside of visiting with Nafisa, there is nothing to do here. I feel like Anne Frank, hiding in the attic with nothing but her diary for company.

Wait, no—that's a bad comparison: Anne was in hiding because the Nazis wanted to kill her. I'm only cooped up in this tent because my host's Muslim ideals of propriety dictate that, even when covered by the  _burqha_ , I should be exposed to the male gaze as seldom as possible. I'm not in any immediate danger.

I'm still bored, though.

I wanted to take out my phone and go through the rest of my Photo library, to see if I could enjoy the memories without letting them overwhelm me. I was afraid to, however, partly because I didn't want to wear down the battery any more than I absolutely had to, and also because I was worried that the slaves or my host would notice the artificial light from the screen and investigate it. What if Melchisidek confiscated or even destroyed my phone, thinking that it was dangerous or unholy? And how would he treat me afterwards, if he did? The sensible choice was to just leave the device alone.

I ended up reading more of Thucydides'  _History_  next to the entrance of the tent. Speaking nonstop Greek with Melchisidek and Athina had sharpened my fluency, and the ancient scholarship was less of a chore to work through than usual. The mental juggling of geography, various ethnic groups, and who hated who a thousand-some years ago kept me occupied until midmorning.

I was only roused from my reading by Athina calling my name outside. I jumped up and made to leave the tent, but retreated back inside like a startled turtle at Ibrahim's yelp of shock at my uncovered face. I threw on the _burqha_ and re-emerged.

"What? What is it?" I asked.

"Tell these dung-eating sons of whores," Athina spat, gesturing at the slaves. "To treat their hosts with respect! I could have them killed with a word."

"Please, do not," I said. Hamid and Ibrahim were returning the old woman's glare with their arms folded across their chests, and had moved to protectively stand between me and Athina. That was... oddly sweet of them. The Oghuz slave/manservant standing behind Athina mostly just looked confused.

"I cannot speak to them," I said. "I do not know their language. Does Nafisa want to eat with me now?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"She wishes to ride. Bring the horse."

"I cannot... I cannot ask them to bring Dor to us. I do not know how."

Athina rolled her eyes and snapped something to the manservant, who hurried past us to where the ambassadorial animals were being kept. He returned a few minutes later leading Dor by the bridle.

"Now we go," the old woman said.

The walk through the camp was much the same as the first time, though there was less staring. Hamid elected to accompany us, and made sure to position his body between me and the Oghuz manservant at all times.

Nafisa was waiting just inside the entrance to her red tent. She squeaked in surprise and exclaimed something in the Oghuz language upon my and Athina's entrance, and bounced on the balls of her feet in excitement as I took off the  _burqha_. As soon as it was off she rushed me and squeezed the air out of my lungs with a hug. I hugged her back out of reflex, and had just enough time to pat her shoulder before the girl whirled away from me and plucked up her scarf from a cushion. She cast it on over her hair, then handed me an identical one. There was more bouncing as she waited for me cover my hair and face, and then she grabbed my hand and practically dragged me out of the tent.

The Oghuz manservant was waiting outside, now leading a horse with white and black splotches as well as Dor. Nafisa rushed over to the splotched horse and kissed its nose. She ran her hands over its face and through the mane, crooning to it in the Oghuz language.

"The mare's name is Tüweleý  **(1)** ," Athina said beside me, also watching the display. "It is her only friend that she could bring with her from her father's tribe."

"Can she visit her family at all?" I asked.

"No. Etrek and his wives and their children are her family now."

"Poor girl."

Athina grunted in disagreement, but otherwise said nothing.

The manservant left and returned with rectangles of cloth and saddles. He spread the cloths over the horses' backs, then hefted the saddles onto them with soft grunts of effort. Nafisa waved him away and secured Tüweleý's saddle on her own, then beckoned me closer. She moved over to Dor, who was standing patiently, and guided my hands through the motions of tightening the saddle into place with a heavy iron buckle.

The saddle tree was made of several pieces of wood with a thin leather covering riveted in place, and it had a high front arch and a low, sloping rear one. Most of the padding was underneath, for the horse rather than its rider. It looked... extremely uncomfortable.  **(2)**

Nevertheless, Nafisa urged me up into it. Dor sidestepped as I shifted my weight into the stirrup, which made the girl scold him and lightly swat his neck as I wobbled dangerously before plopping down into the seat. She adjusted the stirrups to fit the length of my legs, then stepped away and vaulted onto Tüweleý's back with unmatchable grace. The mare pranced eagerly as Nafisa settled herself, and then the girl did something with her knees that made the horse start forward at a walk.

"Put your heels into his flanks," Athina called out to me, "No, further back... not quite... too far! Almost..."

Dor's ears were flat with annoyance, and he snorted impatiently. Eventually, though, I tapped my heels into the right spot, and he started into a walk after Nafisa and Tüweleý. Leaning forward caused him to speed into a bouncing trot that made me grit my teeth, and leaning back as I drew close to Nafisa made him slow down.

I hadn't so much as twitched the reins.

Nafisa looked back, saw me, and gabbled out something bright and excited-sounding that I hoped was praise. We rode through the camp together. It was so different than walking; people got out of our way, and I was looking down on them rather than facing them at eye level. How imperious! My only blunder was when a small child darted suddenly in front of me, and I could only panic as I tried to figure out how to brake a horse—but Dor stopped on his own, unlike a car, and all was well.

When we reached the edge of the camp Nafisa leaned forward over Tüweleý's neck, making the splotched mare break into a canter across the hilly steppe. I did the same, and felt Dor's muscles bunch beneath me before he leaped forward. I clamped tight with my legs and gritted my teeth again, trying to hold back another scream—whether this one was fear or elation, though, I wasn't certain. I could hear the little horse's breathing grow harsher, and could only try to move with the muscles of his back rather than be thrown up and down with each stride. I would have fallen out of the saddle if not for the stirrups.

Leaning to the side or else lightly tugging the reins left or right made the little horse change direction, and I was able to follow Nafisa. Tüweleý was the faster horse, and Dor and I couldn't catch up to her until she decided to slow down at the crown of a steep hill. Dor climbed it, his ribs heaving like a bellows between my legs, and slowed to a halt beside the mare. He lowered his head and breathed hard into the grass.

Nafisa pulled down her scarf, then threw out her arms and laughed. She leaned back in the saddle so that her back was practically lying on top of the mare's rump and directed Tüweleý with her knees, making the horse turn a double pirouette as she laughed and laughed. Eventually the laughter turned to sobbing, and she covered her face with her hands.

I awkwardly slid down from Dor's back and went over to her, lightly touching her shoulder. "It's okay," I said in English, feeling thoroughly useless. "It's okay. It's ok—" Nafisa grabbed me and pressed her face into my shoulder, sniffling hard. She was still lying across the back of her horse, and I was afraid she was going to fall off. She didn't, though, and I patted her back and mumbled meaningless platitudes until she felt well enough to sit up and wipe her eyes.

She dismounted and tossed Tüweleý's reins over the horse's neck, then walked to the edge of the hill. We were looking out over Etrek's camp, the human figures tiny like ants in the distance, the tents sprouting from the ground like mushrooms after rainfall, the horses and other livestock like a sea of brown and black and white upon the steppe surrounding it. The entire encampment must have extended more than a square mile, which was... incredible. We looked out over it in companionable silence broken only by the breathing of the horses.

"It's beautiful," I said at last. "But it's like a prison to you, isn't it?"

Nafisa said something in Oghuz language, sounding resigned.

"Do you want to go home? Back to your mother?"

She looked at me, tired and morose, then turned back to her splotched mare and leaped onto the horse's back. I stepped into Dor's saddle with considerably less grace, but managed to settle myself and toe the little stallion into a walk when we started back down the hill.

I rode with Nafisa for hours, sometimes walking, sometimes trotting, sometimes cantering. The steppe was beautiful but desolate, treeless, and lonely. Bright stars of wildflowers studded the turf, and the land sometimes sharply rose and fell, naked rocks breaking free of the ground to point skyward like crooked, stubby fingers. Most of the time, we rode in silence, but every once in a while Nafisa would point something out to me, speaking the Oghuz language with no expectation of reply. Sometimes I would speak back to her in English.

The sun climbed to its zenith and then began to descend. We stopped at a brook to water the horses and drank our own share upstream from them. The water was clearer than glass and teeth-achingly cold. We watched a hunting eagle swoop down and pluck a rabbit from the steppe, and Nafisa whooped with joy, sharing in the raptor's triumph.

My legs began to hurt. At first it was a manageable ache, like if I had been running too hard, but it quickly centered itself in my knees and thighs. I felt like my bones had been replaced with molten lead and my muscles had turned to jelly. Soon after that I was wincing with every step Dor took. Nafisa noticed and frowned at me, then reined Tüweleý to a halt. She pantomimed for me, showing me how to sit sidesaddle with one leg hooked around the front arch of the saddle for balance. She waited for me to copy her, and then we turned around and made our return to her husband's encampment.

Nafisa waited until the last possible moment to pull her scarf over her hair and face, trusting the splotched mare to pick her way through the outer tents of the encampment as she arranged the cloth around her head. We found Athina waiting for us next to the entrance of the red tent. The old woman was dozing on a low stool, snoring softly with her head lolling to one side. Nafisa giggled and pointed when she saw her.

The Oghuz manservant coughed loudly when we dismounted, making Athina startle awake. She sat up, wincing as her back cracked, and grabbed her walking stick to help heave herself to her feet.

"How was your ride?" she demanded.

"Good," I answered. "There was lots of... grass."

She snorted, then smiled rather nastily. "How are your thighs?"

"I do not know if I will have the ability to stand once I get down from this horse. If I can get down from this horse."

Athina cackled, and cackled harder as I slid gracelessly from Dor's back. My knees buckled when my feet hit the ground, and I almost sat down in the dirt before grabbing the front arch of Dor's saddle and pulling myself upright. I grit my teeth and hobbled over to where Nafisa was waiting next to Athina.

"Bravo," the old woman said drily.

Dinner was waiting for us inside the tent. There was tea and flatbread, but also  _kazy_ , or horse sausage, served with  _zhal_ , the fatty meat directly under the horse's mane. Athina told me that both were considered delicacies, and that Nafisa was offering me high honors by serving such things. I lowered myself onto a cushion, stretched out my aching legs, and ate happily as Nafisa chattered incomprehensibly to Athina. There were no napkins and no utensils other than a knife, and by the end of the meal I was contentedly licking grease off my fingers.

"The meal was delicious. I know it is Nafisa who ordered it be so, but thank you for making it all the same."

Athina inclined her head in regal acknowledgement. Nafisa looked at me, then said something to the old woman.

"She wishes to know when you will be leaving."

"In three days' time."

Nafisa looked heartbroken upon hearing the translation. I crawled across the cushions to hug her, and as I did so I had an idea.

"Is it possible," I asked over Nafisa's shoulder, "To return to my benefactor and retrieve an item within his tent, and then return here? I have a gift for Nafisa, but the giving of it will take some time, and I do not want to stay overlong."

"Yes, it is possible," Athina agreed, frowning. "But give me a description of what you want, and I can have a slave bring it for you."

"It will be a bag with two large straps, dark blue like the evening sky, made of neither leather nor cloth. Your slave will have never seen anything like it."

Athina arched an eyebrow, but nevertheless got to her feet. She went to the entrance of the tent and called out, then rattled something off in the Oghuz language and came back inside. We all sipped tea in companionable silence, waiting. Nafisa pulled away from me and took out the pins and combs securing her hair into place, and it fell down her back like an ebony waterfall.

Finally, the slave returned with the item I had requested. I took my backpack and unzipped the front pocket, rooting around until I found my purse. I pulled it into my lap and opened it, shifting aside my wallet, keys, old receipts, a St. Christopher's charm my dad had given me after the Parkland shooting  **(3)** , sunglasses, crumpled-up sticky notes with scribbled lists of what I'd needed to do or buy—and my makeup bag. Finally. Nafisa and Athina were watching me intently, their eyes fixed on the otherworldly items that made no sense to them.

"Please translate," I said, making Athina tear her gaze away from my car keys. "Where I come from, many women like to enhance their appearances with colored pastes and powders that they put on their faces. I have some with me. Would Nafisa like to try them?"

Nafisa listened to Athina, then nodded. She pointed to my purse and gabbled something inquisitive.

"She wants to know what all of that is," Athina said.

"It is... things I brought with me from my homeland. The one that doesn't exist."

The old woman's eyes snapped to my face and narrowed ever so slightly, but then she turned away and translated for Nafisa. The girl had taken my wallet and was sifting through it with a look of intense concentration, and had selected a debit card that she was tapping with one fingernail and trying to bend in half. It snapped, and she jumped in surprise before running her fingers over the jagged plastic edges. I winced, but said nothing—it wasn't a big deal; I could just call PNC and get them to issue me a new card when I got ho—

when I—

if I—

if I ever—

I shuddered and came back to myself as Nafisa nodded eagerly and made grabby hands towards the bright floral print on my makeup bag. I forced my mouth into a smile and opened it, immediately discarding the far too dark foundation and concealer and instead gravitating towards the bright, fun liquid lipsticks and eye shadow, blush, and highlighter palettes.

Which I had a lot of. And I mean a LOT. It's true that my mom, my aunts, and all my friends called me a makeup fiend, and I did occasionally go on spending sprees at Sephora and Ulta when the stress of finals exams got to me, and that my makeup bag took up 80% of the space in my suburban-mom-sized purse, but how on Earth did I have so many palettes and lipstick collections? This was ridiculous. I grabbed a double handful of plastic tubes and cases and spilled them out onto the braided horsehair rugs covering the floor of the tent.

And so the fun began.

Nafisa snatched up a Juvia's Place eye shadow palette, Afrique, running her fingers over the brightly colored, smooth, glossy cover. She traced the shiny metallic lettering and then lightly touched the front illustration of two women's faces—dark-skinned women, like me. She looked up at me for a moment, then down at the picture again, then touched her cheek. She frowned and said something.

"She asks, is it for her?"

"Tell her yes, anyone can wear what's inside."

Nafisa felt at the edges of the packaging, her fingers slipping over the smooth surface, and after a few light, wary tugs managed to break the magnetic seal holding the lid down. Her eyes widened when she saw the mirror on the inside cover, then widened even further when the face inside the mirror made the same expression. I bit my tongue to stifle a smile as the girl made faces at herself—even the cheap mirror inside a 21st-century makeup case was better than what 90% of all the glassmakers in the entire world of the tenth century could create; Nafisa had never before seen her own reflection so clearly.

And then she noticed the eye shadows. When out clubbing with friends I tended to forego the classic smoky eye for a bright, full-out glam worthy of a Mardi Gras party, and the reds, greens, and blues had been depleted, but Nafisa gravitated to them anyway. She ran her fingertips through the shadow and then gasped softly at the bright colors that stained them afterwards. She rubbed it over one cheek, which made me make a disapproving noise before I could stop myself.

"She asks, what is the proper way to apply this... powder?"

"I can put it on her, if she wishes it."

"...Yes."

Nafisa was squirming with excitement as I seated myself in front of her, and she was smiling so widely that her eyes crinkled—there was no place to put the shadow.

"Smooth face! Smooth face!" I said. "Be calm! Think about, um... dead frogs."

Athina snorted in derision, but translated. Nafisa made a disgusted face at that, and I tapped her nose to make her jump. She settled down after that, her expression turning neutral and the lines of her face smoothing out.

"What does she want to look like?"

"...Like the sky over the steppe in the springtime, like the wind moving through the grass." Athina rolled her eyes. "Like freedom."

I frowned at her, but the old woman only sniffed and settled herself more comfortably on her cushion.

Whatever.

I tried not to chew my lip as I thought. The blue of the Afrique palette was... too deep, maybe, for Nafisa's light skin? I'd never done a white girl's makeup before. Procrastinating, I thumbed through the familiar palettes, discarding Nubian (nudes) and Warrior II (reds) immediately, waffling for a few moments over Festival (reds again, but with a noteworthy pink and shimmery blue) before I saw the yellow-green packaging of Tribe. Opening it revealed exactly what I hadn't known I'd been looking for: greens and golds.

First, the dark hunter green on the middle to the outer lid and surrounding area. And Nafisa's paleness provided so much contrast; on my own lids I'd need to apply a primer to get this much effect. A quick streak of rich yellow gold along the underside of the brow bone, and then cover the middle and inside of her lid with the bright, light green. Blend, and then a pale yellow to the inner portion of the lid. Blend that as well, then a dot of white gold at the tear duct, and... I dived back into my makeup bag and surfaced with a bright aqua eyeliner pen. A careful swipe of that along the edge of her lower lid, another swipe with a black pen that somehow formed a half-decent wing, and we were done.

I held up the mirror. Nafisa gasped.

"...She says it is beautiful," Athina translated, then yawned widely from something other than tiredness.

"Would you like to try the powders as well?" I asked.

She made a disgusted face. "No."

"Why not?"

"Playing with paints and powders is for the young. I am old. I have no need of wasteful diversions."

I sighed, but could recognize an unwinnable battle when I saw it—and this wasn't the time for one anyway. I went back to Nafisa. We fooled around with my makeup kit until the lamps were guttering low from lack of oil, trying on different faces. I did a classic smoky eye with some blush and lipstick that looked like it came straight out of the 2010's, which was in stark contrast with Nafisa's 10th century dress/robe getup. She wanted a bright red warrior mask with gold accents after that, which I obliged her, and then she got to practice on my face.

She went hard on the greens, purples, and bright reds, which made my 21st century sensibilities cringe in horror—but at the same time it was intensely interesting. Nafisa (probably) had no concept of modern color theory or any of the symbolism that I associated with each color. Green for plants was obvious, yes, and the jump to vitality and freshness was an easy one, but in my own time (and at least in Western culture) that color was also associated with poison. Purples concerned luxury and royalty, red was for war and love, white for purity, blue for calmness... It was likely that the Oghuz culture didn't think about colors that way. I was itching to ask Nafisa about it, but Athina seemed to be in an even fouler mood than usual and I didn't want to push her.

It was Nafisa who bothered the old woman first. She had started to fall asleep, and Nafisa snapped her fingers twice to startle Athina awake before gabbling something in the Oghuz language. Athina blinked the tiredness out of her eyes before translating.

"She wants to see you apply your powders onto yourself. She does not think you usually wear a rainbow on your face and wants to know what you normally wear."

I used some makeup wipes, removing Nafisa's bright but clumsy efforts and feeling... odd. Of course I had a "normal" face that I put on before classes or even just to run to the store for something, but to wear it here? I should be going through this routine in the bathroom of the suite I shared with Rachel, Summer, and Fatima, wearing the latest styles from Charlotte Russe and trying to remember the meaning of the words "phospholipid bilayers" for the upcoming test in my Introduction to Biology class. Instead, I was kneeling on braided horsehair rugs in a tent made from actual leather somewhere in Central Asia in the year 932 CE. It felt like whiplash. Or some really weird form of jet lag.

I went through the motions mechanically, applying primer and then a layer of foundation, covering all the little spots and skin tags and brightening my skin. Nafisa was staring at me intently as I looked into the little hand mirror I kept in the kit. It was probably sacrilegious to say so, but going through my morning makeup routine was almost as calming as prayer had been last night. Next was highlighter along my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and a small dab in the center of my chin. I blended, then used some nudes on my eyelid after touching up my brows, and finally finished with eyeliner wings and mascara.

"How do I look?" I asked Nafisa.

"...She apologizes for calling you ugly yesterday. You are not."

"Thank you."

Nafisa seemed oddly subdued after that. She kept looking at my foundation, which was far too dark for her, and then back at my face. We continued using the makeup, but the playful feeling had gone out of it. Nafisa spent a lot of time squinting into the mirror, biting her lip and trying to get everything just right. We stopped only when Athina had to refill the lamps.

I picked out which palettes I wanted to give her. She liked bright colors, so Tribe and Afrique were a given, but it was always good to have nudes for a more basic look, so I threw in Nubian as well. I added some primer and blush, since those were the only ones of my skin products that would work with her color, as well as the lipsticks she seemed to enjoy the most. I felt no reluctance while giving my makeup away—it was useless to me now, after all—and the sadness I had managed to push away while riding and playing with cosmetics had returned. Nafisa seemed to feel the same way, and moped as Athina shuffled around the tent with her jug of oil. She spoke with her slave, which I didn't pay attention to until Athina started translating.

"She wishes you to spend the night here."

"...Why?"

"Because you are her only friend and are going away soon."

"I must seek permission from Melchisidek for this."

Athina shrugged. "Then we go."

I put on the  _burqha_  and exited the tent, blinking hard in the sudden darkness outside its warm, lamplit interior. Dung-fueled cookfires burned bright throughout the Oghuz camp, sending up plumes of reeking smoke. People were still laughing and talking everywhere, and a woman nearby was singing in a throaty but earnest voice. Hamid was squatting at a campfire with a group of Oghuz, playing what looked like knucklebones. Occasionally someone in the group exclaimed triumphantly, and pieces of silver were exchanged. He looked up guiltily when I called his name, then hurried over.

Our walk through the camp was uneventful, and Melchisidek was surprised but not reluctant to grant my request. When we returned, Nafisa had selected a shift made from lamb's wool for me to wear as a nightgown, and had already changed into her own sleepwear. She showed me to a sleeping platform, which was different than what I had slept on in Melchisidek's tent in that it had a mattress made of a leather pad stuffed with grasses. It was also big enough for two people. I lay down on it, a little bit shocked at the luxury I was being offered... and then Nafisa cuddled up beside me.

"Why is this happening?" I asked, politely disentangling myself. Nafisa pouted.

"Nafisa wishes to sleep next to you," Athina said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards as she noticed my discomfort.

"Tell her this is... uncommon where I live. People do not sleep next to each other unless they are lovers."

Nafisa listened to the translation, then shrugged and re-cuddled me. Was this normal for female friends and relatives among the Oghuz? If entire families lived in close quarters in tents like these, and if the winters were cold, then it didn't seem implausible. Nafisa was quite content to put her head on my shoulder and go to sleep as Athina doused the lamps and banked the coals of the central brazier, but I was intensely uncomfortable as I listened to the old woman moving around the tent. I could only lay there in the darkness, trying to think of a way to change the situation without offending my host. Her hands didn't wander, which—thank God. Just thank God for that. Never mind that we technically had a chaperone in the form of Athina, but I was in bed with a minor and internally having a meltdown over a propriety-related culture clash.

Eventually, when Nafisa's breathing had slowed and I was 100% certain she was asleep, I slipped off the sleeping platform. I arranged some cushions and a fur near the brazier and lay down there.

"Is a soft bed truly so horrible?" Athina asked softly. Her eyes glittered in the faint glow of the banked fire from the corner where she apparently slept.

"No. But I am unaccustomed to sharing one. I will sleep better alone."

Athina grunted. "Nafisa always sleeps alone. Maybe, with your paints and powders, Etrek will look at her again."

I froze. Athina continued: "She will have a child once he lays with her again, and she will be happy."

"Nafisa is fourteen," I whispered, forgetting myself. "She is a child herself; she is too young to have children."

"I was thirteen when I had my first," Athina said, shrugging. "She has not yet fully grown a woman's shape, and the birthing will hurt her, but if she survives her labor the next ones will be easier."

Oh. Oh my God. I had never thought—I had seen giving Nafisa some makeup as just a innocent, girly thing for us to share. Instead, I might very well be aiding in child sexual abuse. Oh my God. I hadn't wanted to make Etrek actually desire his adolescent wife, just for us to have fun. Now...

"It is different in my homeland. There, the laws say women cannot marry until they are at least eighteen, and it is common for them to wait a half decade or more to marry a man of their choosing."

"Your homeland sounds like a dream, if it exists."

"...What was your life like before you became a slave?" I found myself asking. In the darkness of the tent as Nafisa slept, it felt like a time and place where walls could be lowered and secrets aired.

"My daughter's name was Damalis. That is all I care to remember," Athina replied. In the gloom of the tent I couldn't see her face clearly, but her voice was full of weariness and sorrow. She shifted the conversation before I could continue needling her with questions: "Where will you travel after you leave us?"

"I will go north with my benefactor to the land of the Volga Bulgars, and from there I do not know."

"The lands to the north are filled with bandits and barbarians. You will need your pendant."

"My... what?"

"The bauble in your bag, the little silver icon."

"The St. Christopher's charm?"

"Yes. He protects travelers. You should pray to him."

"Are you a Christian?"

"Once," Athina admitted. "A long time ago. Go to sleep, Ashley of Briggs. Past the lands of the Oghuz you will need all your strength."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) another Turkmen word, Tüweleý means "whirlwind/tornado".
> 
> (2) the description of the saddle is inspired by Irina Dmitrievna Tkačenko's essay "Riding horse tack among the cattle-breeders of Central Asia and Southern Siberia in the first and second millennia CE" (2009)
> 
> (3) "Parkland shooting": February 14, 2018, a gunman killed 17 students and staff at a high school in Parkland, Florida. As of January 2019 it is the deadliest school shooting in United States history. "St. Christopher's charm": St. Christopher emerged in the 4th century CE as the patron saint of children and travelers, and is venerated by both the Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches.
> 
> a final note: Juvia's Place is a real cosmetic brand in the 21st century, and therefore it is necessary to say that I, the writer of this fanfiction, am not endorsing their company in any way through the fictitious usage of their products by fictional characters. I am neither receiving nor hoping to receive money from Juvia's Place in return for describing my own original characters enjoying these products, and am not encouraging my readers to buy them.
> 
> This is also our last chapter among the Oghuz! Next chapter we'll be meeting some vikings!


End file.
